Forced Matrimony
by zenithoflife
Summary: And she recollects pale eyelashes lying close to her warm skin, fluttering shut in unguarded repose; of laughter wafting in the breeze after freshly fallen snow, of birds flying freely, unfettered into the dazzling sunlight — There was no escape. Ichiruki


**Forced Matrimony**

**By zenithoflife**

A/N: Just wanted to drop a note here to funkysquirrel: thanks for giving me such a wonderful review for Forced Matrimony when I first posted it-it really made my day! :) I was so sorry that I had to resubmit this-there were some complications with (insert internet lingo I just don't get). Thanks for your awesomeness!

_Marriage is like life in this-that it is a field of battle, and not a bed of roses._

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, _Virginibus Puerisqu_

Dense treacherous clouds hung threateningly in the horizon, shielding the sun from sight.

The colour of bruises and ashes, Kuchiki Rukia thought, as she fastened the innumerable buttons on her corset, wincing as she did so. Certainly the people who had invented this item of dress, never thought of the poor peasants who actually had to wear this _monstrous device of human torture,_ she added mentally.

She sucked in a tortured gasp, and tugged—one last pull and she would be able to button this goddamn—

"Rukia!" A pink blur flew into the room, possessing all the subtlety of a whirlwind. "I need your help!"

"Can a girl never dress in this place without being interrupted?" Rukia threw up her hands in despair, or tried to as Matsumoto spun her about in a frenzy of excitement.

"Of course not!" chimed in Hinamori, who had made her way in in a more dignified fashion. Although Matsumoto had set _that_ bar at an indecent low, Rukia rolled her eyes. "You know she can't dress without rushing in to ask your opinion at least once a day."

"And somehow always while I'm wearing my clothes." Rukia shook her head. "One day, Matsumoto, I swear by the Gods, I'm going to sue you for sexual harassment."

"Oh please," Matsumoto waved off her nonexistent threat dismissively. "When are you going to admit that you need my superb taste in fashion? Stop deluding yourself, woman!"

"About that—" Rukia started than stopped, laughing. Matsumoto had seen her in various states of dress and undress, and independent though she was, she did have to admit that she had the fashion sense of a fly.

"Give it up, Rukia!" Hinamori threw herself on her bed. "You know you never can argue with Matsumoto when she's in one of her clothing frenzies."

"But Rukia—" whined Matsumoto. "Today's the day! Where's the excitement? Where's all that hype? They're fighting for us—"

"Rukia," Hinamori's look of excitement subsided into one of realization. Risking a look up, Rukia saw the identical look of consternation flash across Matsumoto's face. "I'm so sorry. I have Hitsugaya and Matsumoto has Gin, but you—"

"This isn't the time to worry about me!" Rukia waved off their sympathy, and feigned a look of horror. "But if its between marrying Kenpachi or Mayuri, I'll rather impale myself on a clothes hanger!"

This was the part where Rukia dreaded the most. The country under King Yamamoto's rule had progressed beyond the realms of what people had thought possible—but beneath the refined façade, the brutalistic traditions of the people still remained true.

Men were forced to fight for their women in court, the blood spilt soaked up in banners of each errant knight's colours.

And the king condoned these activities, Rukia suppressed a shiver. He had, in fact, encouraged it—a sport where the rich threw coins in the poor's coffers and both had opportunities to mingle.

Perhaps, she thought silently, it would have been hard to remain a gutter's waif, subject to the winter chill, penniless and begging for coins from the miserly rich.

But surely anything was better than to be the plaything of the nobles, a lapdog for the counts to seek a wife. A wife in name but not in soul, while in full knowledge that her husband sworn in matrimony that very day, had gone to seek out a whore's bed instead.

Sereitei was well-known for their rules—the loudest unspoken one was that of the women's unconditional tolerance of their husband's infidelity. It was common knowledge that the men could sleep wherever he chose, but for the women; to do so was sacrilege. Certain death for a night of passion.

Even women in widow's weeds would be hard-pressed to marry again. To seek out a lover for a discreet illicit affair was the norm, but should it be made known outside of the bedroom, all hell would break loose.

"Rukia?" Hinamori broke through her reverie, and she stared up at Hinamori's warm brown eyes. "I know that it's going to be hard, but please, believe me. If anything happens, we," she gestured to Matsumoto who was nodding vigorously in assent. "We are going to take you away, hide you in our houses."

"What about Hitsugaya and Gin?" Rukia fought to quell down the naked panic rising in her voice. The worst that could befall a girl wasn't a happy marriage or a cold bed at night. It was to be shackled to a partner, one more beast than man.

She knew of screams in the frigid winter air, the similar ones she tried to stifle and drown out with her pillow, lulled to bed by her untroubled sweet dreams. Haunted eyes with the half-mad prayer's shriek behind them, begging in anguish for _helphelphelp_.

Help that would—could never come.

Of the hushed cases of women hanging limply, seeking release in death for what they could never achieve in life.

What could Matsumoto and Hinamori do against a demanding husband fully justified in his rights?

Without warning, Rukia found herself engulfed in an overwhelming hug, and she found herself stifling back tears as Hinamori squashed the two of them in her equally tight embrace.

"We're all going to be fine, Rukia," Matsumoto sniffled. "You too."

"Whatever happens," Hinamori continued softly. "You'll always have us."

Rukia found herself relaxing involuntarily in the protective circle of their arms, looking affectionately at the both of them; and wishing in that transcient second that they could always remain like that—in that fragile, temporal second suspended in time.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The quiet chiming of the church bells in the distance tolled the start of the ceremony.

"Kurosaki," Ichigo looked up from stabling his horse and met Uryuu Ishida's gaze.

"Quincy," He acknowledged, and felt an irrational streak of victory when he glimpsed annoyance flicker in the other man's eyes, destroying his impassive façade. He turned away and began polishing his sword.

They had once been allies—no, more than allies. _Parabatai_, sworn brothers in arms. Old ties of comradeship that he would have once done anything to preserve. It was ironic, Ichigo thought, that he now sought vindictive pleasure in waging war against him—a war that Ishida had started.

Yet, his bitter pleasure came with a tang of regret, one that he had yet to place squarely in the past and shut the door on. Resurrected old ghosts were hard to forget, and harder to bury permenantly.

"She wants you to be her champion." Ishida couldn't suppress the crimson fury that rose unbidden to the surface. "She's still waiting for your incompetent self to assuage her agony."

An agony that I willingly inflicted, Ishida added silently to himself.

Ichigo willed himself to drop his clenched fists. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a boy with erratically spiked white hair stable his mare.

So the heir to the Hitsugaya name had come to compete for a bride as well, he noted absently before returning to the fight brewing at hand.

"I am marrying my future wife," Ichigo emphasized, ignoring the spurt of barely concealed animosity in Ishida's eyes. "For her land. And contrary to your beliefs, I do respect my frien—allies' claims to his woman."

Neither made any reference to Ichigo's slip of the tongue as Ichigo continued to sharpen his sword. It gleamed, lethal in the golden sunlight filtering through the rafters of the stable.

"Don't you understand?" Sudden rage bloomed, distorting his features into harsh rigid lines as he wrenched Ichigo's sword away from him in a swift motion. It clattered to the ground and Ichigo tensed, motionless.

"She wants you—" Ishida murmured brokenly, a shaking hand shielding his eyes from view. "You who never did anything to gain her love, never reciprocated any of her feelings—"

He stopped. "You—not me."

Ichigo straightened, anger replacing sadness like a caged beast wrestling to break free. "I never—"

The starting horn blared, slicing through the still air like an arrow straight to its mark.

Ishida swung himself on his horse and cantered away, leaving Ichigo staring at the silhouette of his back fading into the horizon.

The list of unspoken words fell between the chasm between them, widening into eternity and impossible to cross. Any attempts to cross the gaping abyss were failures like the tenuous bond that once existed between them.

Seemingly impenetrable to sword or stone in its superficiality but splintered like faded blossoms left discarded by the wayside.

Ichigo hurled himself on his horse as it reared in shock before galloping into the dazzling sunlight. Distantly, he heard the thrumming of its hooves on uneven ground, allowing himself to succumb to the inviting film of red that loomed venomously over his eyes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Calm down, Rukia," urges Matsumoto. Her ineffectual soothing couples with HInamori's reassurances but they do little to alleviate her feelings of impending doom.

"There's Hitsugaya," squeals Hinamori, voice rising slightly as she waves frantically at the white-haired boy harnessing his horse and guiding it out of the stables. "Here—"

"And there's my beautiful Nanao," booms a voice, drowning out all the countless shrieks in the crowd.

Rukia swivels around, ignoring the shuffle of her dress over the seats. Groaning at the thought of all the effort invested into making sure each ruffle aligned perfectly with the next, she slumps down slightly in her seat. Dressing was such a pain.

She pushes it to the back of her mind. She will deal with it later. Just _notnownotnownotnow_, her mind rebels, wanting nothing to taint her memory of her last day of freedom.

Beside her, Matsumoto fidgets uneasily in the sweltering heat of the summer's day. Rukia stops for a moment, registering Matsumoto's uncharacteristic solemnity, before any thought about the heat is blasted away by Shunsui's loud voice.

"How lovely, we have such specimens of beauty to grace our arena today," From Rukia's seat, Shunsui appears a pinprick but she can just about make out his lascivicious nod above his florid pink hat as he presides over the festivities. "No offence intended though, but none can quite rival my lovely wife's—"

Beside him, his consort Nanao merely regards his antics with a practiced air of exasperation tinged with affection.

The court has long gotten used to Shunsui's air of debauchery. Yet, it remains one of their long-standing mysteries that while Shunsui indulged in such activities, indeed made no attempt to conceal his penchant for alcohol, his proclivity for women began and ended with his wife.

It is the content of hushed whispers beneath concealed giggles behind locked doors.

But it is common knowledge that Shunsui is one of the rare few in court who rejects all advances, makes no illicit dalliances and simply put, has a raw, honest untempered affection for his wife.

And their monogamous relationship is something that the flirtatious court cannot, will not, must not understand. It puzzles them, piques their interest, and also has the misfortune of making Ise Nanao the object of many courtesans' envy from afar.

They are afraid, like idle children of being haunted by something forever out of their reach, regret possibly?—so perhaps it is better that they flee from it, sweeps it easily beneath the carpet of desires—impossibilities.

Perhaps, muses Rukia, marriage was stepping of a precipice—the question was whether she would end up in the courts of Heaven or in the company of the damned. And hell if she would take the choice if she was left on her own.

But as she watches Shunsui deftly twine a pink blossom in his wife's hair and artfully manoeuvre his fingers just out of the reach of her lethal fan, she is forced to admit that she is jealous –jealous of something she couldn't put a name on—an unnamed emotion impossible to grasp.

Beside her, Matsumoto echoes her contemplations. "I wish—" her voice trails off into a low murmur. "That perhaps Gin loved me the same way Shunsui loved her."

Rukia, jolted out of her own reveries, stares at her in amazement. As Matsumoto busied herself untying her ribbons, Rukia instinctively grabs her shoulder and a tinge of guilt shoots through her veins like molten fire when the other girl flinches.

She has gotten so used to Matsumoto being larger than life that it terrifies her now when she stares at Matsumoto, the fragility of her hunched shoulders. Despite Matsumoto's pronounced assets, she's merely a girl—more child than woman.

They forget that when they run to Matsumoto with their problems, so secure; so assured that she would be there with her comforting advice—her ability to flavor any situation with her usual absurdity—that she has her own problems as well.

And she's being tormented by them. It is such a piercing revelation that Rukia stumbles backwards—

"What do you mean?" Her eyes bore into Matsumoto's grey ones as the other woman lookes away.

"I—" Hinamori leans forward too. "Matsu, what on earth do you mean?"

Matsumoto buries her face in the ribbons. "I—"

" I thought you loved him-?"

"I do—" Matsumoto looks up, face flushed. "I do…" Hinamori fell silent as Matsumoto ran her fingers through her hair in contemplation, mouth unable to contort the syllables, unable to express those unnamed emotions commingling in her eyes.

All of a sudden, Rukia realizes that Matsumoto isn't nervous, she is petrified. Jittery with fear, her unguarded eyes reflects a deeper terror than even Rukia's

It ravages her features, this intense terror and Rukia feels like she is staring at Matsumoto through a stained glass window—face distorted, undeniably the same person—yet different.

Different.

"You—" She starts before Matsumoto cuts her off, close to tears. Her words are tumbling out rapidly almost as if seeking freedom before she changed her mind. They are almost anxious, desperate gasps, searching for refuge before Matsumoto clamps them away, locked away with other words that would never see the light of day.

Rukia thinks only of indistinct wafts in the air, non-substantial and easily discarded in the next puff of breath, and embraces Matsumoto, tight—wishing never to let go.

And she wonders distantly how long she has concealed this from their oblivious eyes—how many tears spilt in secret when she is away from them, unknowing.

"I love the way he runs his fingers through my hair, the way he leaves his shirt two buttons open—the way he is able to sleep peacefully only next to me." Matsumoto tenses, fingers gouging, ripping the satin fabric of her dress. "But I can't—I can't—marry him."

They remain silent, Hinatmori staring at Matsumoto, mouth agape.

"He—he loves power, wants it, yearns for it—more than—anything," The last fades away on her lips in a muffled murmur.

Matsumoto recollects pale eyelashes lying close to her warm skin, fluttering shut in still unguarded repose. In that split second, personifying perfection in the flesh of a fallen angel. Of rapid breaths in the aftermath of their encounters, of laughter wafting through in the breeze after freshly fallen snow, of birds flying freely, unfettered into the dazzling sunlight—

"It scares me, Rukia," She mutters, fingers tearing the delicate fibres, and Hinamori jerks impulsively as the rustle of torn fabric rents the air.

Rukia waits—silence strung between them like a taut string, lined with bitter regret.

Of things unsaid.

But words aren't enough to express her sorrow and Matsumoto has no need for hollow reassurances. They alone know what women have to do.

And they stay silent, in the naiivity of their crystallized youth, a feigned attempt to shield her from unknown demons. Her fate—their destiny—there is no difference now.

They are all tied to the same ending.

Rukia straightens into her seat, her back rigid, conscious of the gazes of the stoic Kuchiki clan. Their features trained into an impenetrable mask, their eyes are coolly scrutinizing her every move.

She feels bile rise at the back of her throat. There is no doubt that any knight who has the misfortune to wed her in matrimony will be specially handpicked, already submitted to the rigors of the Kuchiki examination. The fact that she has no choice but to be shackled to one of their minions sends a wave of nausea flooding over her.

There is no escape

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Ichigo grins victoriously as he hurtles forward rapidly, flying over the uneven ground. His mare snorts in ecstacy and he hears Ishida's shout as he turns—seeing Ichigo galloping towards Orihime. In a vindictive glance, he notes Orihime's face lighting up and a broad smile spreading blissfully over her features.

He sees the delicate curve of her mouth form the familiar words, contorting into the well-worn syllables _I knew you would come for me, Kurosaki-kun—, _and Ishida's enraged glare, an explosion of fury in the tightened press of his lips.

And it makes the sweet taste of victory all the better when he reigns in his horse _right beneath Orihime Inoue's seat, seeing disappointment furrow her brows _and bows to Lady Hinamori, presenting her with a delicate rose, as evidence of his attempt to be her champion.

The blatant violence etched in the contours of his face makes Hinamori retreat backwards, shock apparent in her eyes. Ichigo knows of his destructive rage that makes him want to lash out at friend and foe alike—a second skin that almost seems like it will never end; an old wound that was still festering—of Orihime's treachery, of Ishida's lack of trust.

It could never end.

He turns away because there is nothing left for him.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The bugle call drifts along the wind and Hitsugaya saddles his horse, the thrum of hoofs a consistent rhythm on solid ground.

He glimpses Uryuu Ishida bowing courtly to a buxom maiden whose eyes reflect disappointment, her auburn locks gleaming in the sun.

The play of light bisects the grand stands, throwing the mosaic of shadows—black on white on the tempered grass.

It comes to him in flashes, detachedly, as if he's a distant observer from the grand stands.

And he sees Kurosaki spurring his horse, flying towards Hinamori—_his Hinamori, his_, he thinks to himself and the thought burns itself like an all-consuming flame.

And a vise-like grip of rage has him in its thrall.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Matsumoto smiles as Gin detaches himself from the horde of riders, the impressive panoply of knights' banners, and gallops towards her.

"Flowers for the sweet," He gives her a roguish grin and she can't help but smile back.

Because _she does, she does_ love him—despite everything he has the potential to become—the threat of violence always lying beneath the surface, his naked ambition threatening to blind him from even, her.

Her heart will always return instinctively to him because he is her haven, her personal sanctuary from the winds that threaten to wrench her apart.

She just doesn't know if she is enough for him.

Until a long shadow blocks her from him and she looks up.

"For you," Aizen smiles gently to her but all she hears is the pounding of her heart in her ears.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o


End file.
